You Can't Always Get What You Want
by Lyrical Ballads
Summary: After a year of traveling, Jonathan's return to Cairo is disrupted when a woman from his past comes knocking on his door, bringing a secret that turns his carefree world completely on its head.
1. The Woman

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The Mummy_. Title of the story was borrowed from "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones.

**Author's Note:** I really shouldn't be writing another story, since I have a million other things I haven't finished, but I got the urge to start this a few days ago and just had to do it. _Had_ to. This is AU (which means I'll probably find a way to drag Beni into it somehow) and I'm planning to keep the whole thing pretty short. Because I really don't want to get invested in another long story. So here we go!

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**You Can't Always Get What You Want**

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The Woman

"Evy! Evy, the doorbell's ringing!"

Jonathan looked hopefully at the front stairs, expecting his sister to come rushing down with her reading glasses tucked hastily out of sight, but Evelyn didn't appear. Another ominous ring echoed through the house.

"Evy!" Jonathan tried again, raising his voice. "The doorbell!"

Still no sign of his sister.

"Oh, drat," Jonathan muttered.

Good things usually didn't happen to him when he answered the door. In fact, good things _never_ happened to him when he answered the door and he avoided that dreadful task whenever possible, leaving Evelyn to deal with the latest shifty fellow who had come to demand money (all a terrible mistake, of course) or drive away the latest angry husband who caught Jonathan necking his wife in an automobile (also a mistake, since there were an awful lot of men in Cairo who bore a striking resemblance to Jonathan).

He used to make the housekeeper bustle downstairs and answer the door, but they had to dismiss her two years ago, after Jonathan ran up that massive gambling debt that drove his sister to tears when she discovered it. He didn't _mean_ to let all of that debt pile up week after week. It simply slipped his mind and there were _so_ many things he needed to spend his hard-earned money on instead, like that lovely bottle of scotch and those shiny shoes that made him feel like a millionaire and that delightful, fairy-like creature with the long curls and the soft, springy bed. An absolute beauty was what she was. Not a whore or a prostitute or any of those other ghastly words, but a young, lovely beauty who was worth every last pound he spent on her.

Their fortunes had improved since then, but they never got around to hiring another housekeeper. Evelyn didn't like having servants anyway. She said she didn't like ordering them about when she was perfectly capable of helping herself.

Jonathan made one last, half-hearted attempt at calling his sister's name, then sighed and trudged over to the front door. He tugged it open and found a woman staring back at him, a woman he knew but hadn't seen in ages. He recognized that ash-blonde hair, which had been cut in a simple bob without any curls or fuss, and he recognized those brown eyes and that full, pink mouth, but he couldn't imagine how she found him or why she had the nerve to come knocking on his door. He was only aware of the familiar, unpleasant feeling of dread that came over him whenever a woman from his past decided to come out of the blue and say hello. He _hated_ making chitchat with an old flame. Always best to pretend he didn't know her, and that any encounter they may have had was all in her silly little head.

"Er, do I know you?" said Jonathan, flashing a nonchalant smile at the woman.

Her eyes grew cold the moment he spoke. "I wait an entire year for you to return and that's all you have to say to me, Jonathan?" Her accent was American, her voice light and pleasant to the ear. The memories were stirring in Jonathan's mind, bringing back sharp recollections of cocktails and hotel rooms and brightly colored evening gowns.

"I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding," he said. "You wouldn't _believe_ how many fellows in this city are named Jonathan. A good deal of them look remarkably like me, too. It's really quite uncanny—"

"Jonathan, please," she said, sounding a little sadder and a little more desperate. "I've been waiting a long time to speak to you."

"A year, you said? My, that's a frightfully long time."

"I would have approached you sooner, but you've been away for so long. I only just discovered that you're back in town."

"Yes, well... word gets around, I suppose," said Jonathan.

He hadn't the faintest idea what to say to her. There she stood on his doorstep, wearing a crisp black dress so different from the bright, sunny colors she preferred the last time he saw her, and he wished she would come out and tell him why she had chosen that dull, hot afternoon to pay a visit. He wondered why she made the effort to find him at all.

They enjoyed each other's company during the few weeks he had known her, without a single quarrel between them, but then he and Evelyn spent a few months traveling to various dig sites across Egypt, and after that they went to England to spend some time with their father's family. Great-Aunt Beulah specifically requested their presence, since the crotchety old bat was dying, but Jonathan thought she was full of poppycock. The old woman had supposedly been dying for at least fifteen years. It was their duty to go to England and humor her, according to Evelyn, though his sister always did have an unfortunate charitable streak. Jonathan tried to stamp it out of her when they were younger, but it appeared to be a permanent weakness.

So he vanished from Cairo for a year, making his casual farewells to all of his favorite haunts, and he soon forgot all about the woman who stood before him. She was only a bit of fun and he never expected to see her again, but there she was on his doorstep, wearing black and looking older than the carefree woman who occupied his idle hours when the sun went down.

"Why don't you, ah, come inside and I'll fix you a drink?" Jonathan asked.

"I'd like that," she said.

She didn't sound as if she enjoyed the prospect. She kept watching him warily, as if trying to figure out who he was, and Jonathan was only too willing to take her into the house and straight to the parlor, where the liquor cabinet awaited. He couldn't remember the last time he let a woman into the house. Evelyn liked his female guests even less than she liked having servants, and Jonathan half-expected her to come downstairs that very moment and insist he take his harlot elsewhere.

Only she wasn't a harlot. She was a pretty blonde American with an excess of money and free time. She was looking far too serious as she sat beside Jonathan on the sofa, keeping her hands in her lap as she waited for her drink.

"It certainly _has_ been a while, hasn't it?" he asked, pouring some cognac from its crystal decanter. "A whole bloody year! You don't mind if I say bloody, do you? I suppose it means nothing to you American girls."

"You don't remember my name, do you?" she asked suddenly.

Jonathan choked a little on his cognac. "Of course I know your name, darling. Don't be absurd."

"You haven't said it once."

"That doesn't mean I don't remember it."

"Then what is it?"

"Penelope," he said with certainty.

"Priscilla," she corrected. "Priscilla Clark. Or I _was_ Priscilla Clark."

She fiddled with something on her left hand and Jonathan noticed the solid band of gold circling her ring finger. "Oh," he said. "You're, uh... you're married."

"Widowed, actually."

"Oh," Jonathan said again. Her dress looked blacker than ever as she sat on the cream colored sofa, her stocking-clad legs crossed in front of her. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"I didn't know him for very long," said Priscilla. "He passed on a couple of months after the wedding."

Jonathan poured himself a little more cognac. Priscilla had barely touched hers. "So that's why you're wearing the, uh... the dress," he remarked, gesturing vaguely at her dark skirt. "I'm afraid it doesn't suit you at all, darling. Surely there's been a _little_ sunshine in your life since I saw you last."

"I have a little boy," she said. "He's three months old." She reached into her handbag and produced a photograph, which she handed to Jonathan. "His name is Jack."

Jonathan looked at the tiny boy in the picture and supposed he looked the way all babies did, with a round face and big eyes. He sat in Priscilla's lap looking curiously at the camera. "Handsome little chap."

"Thank you." Priscilla sat up straighter, uncrossing her legs and putting her feet firmly on the floor. "I'm sorry for dropping in so unexpectedly. I simply had to see you."

"Yes, well, it's been marvelous seeing you again. A whole bloody year and you're as ravishing as ever, black dress and all."

She didn't smile. She hadn't smiled once since Jonathan opened the door and found her on his doorstep. "I'm afraid this isn't a social call, Jonathan. I..."

She trailed off at the sight of Evelyn, who had appeared in the parlor with a book—a particularly old and musty looking volume—clutched to her chest. "Jonathan, I thought I heard voices," Evelyn said. Her eyes landed on Priscilla and she stared for a moment, searching for something to say. "Pardon me. I didn't realize you had a guest."

"Oh, this is just an old friend," Jonathan said quickly. "Priscilla... Priscilla Clark, isn't it?"

"Priscilla Burns, actually," she said.

"Yes, yes. Priscilla Burns. Poor thing's a widow, you know. Still madly in love with her late husband, too. She was just showing me a photograph of her little boy here."

"I see," said Evelyn.

Jonathan recognized the look on his sister's face. It was the look of disapproval she wore whenever she discovered Jonathan alone with a woman, particularly when he and the woman had the grave misfortune to lose some of their clothes in the process of getting acquainted, and it was always best to distract Evelyn as quickly as possible. She could be dreadfully embarrassing when she put her mind to it.

"Here, have a look at the little fellow," said Jonathan, still holding the photograph of Priscilla's baby in his hand. He got up from his seat, a grin upon his face, and waited for Evelyn to set down her book before thrusting the picture into her hand. "Only three months old, she says."

Evelyn's face softened as she looked at the photograph. "He's a lovely child."

"I'm glad you think so," Priscilla spoke up, watching them both with anxious eyes. "Because Jonathan's the father."

The photograph slipped from Evelyn's fingers and fell to the floor.


	2. The Promise

The Promise

_The father._

Those words echoed in Jonathan's head, sounding strange and foreign as he tried to grasp their meaning. He grabbed his glass of cognac off the coffee table and took a hasty swallow, then wondered if he had gotten roaring drunk without even realizing it.

_Jonathan's the father._

He _must_ be drunk. Either that or he misheard Priscilla when she uttered those damning words. "I'm sorry," said Jonathan, trying and failing to smile through his confusion. "I don't believe I heard you correctly. The old ears aren't what they used to be, you know."

Priscilla sat like a statue on the sofa, watching Jonathan and Evelyn in her drab, black dress. "I said you're my child's father, Jonathan."

"But—but that's impossible. Your husband—"

"Was a good man who knew I was in trouble," Priscilla cut in. "He knew Jack wasn't his from the start."

"Oh, dear," Jonathan murmured.

There had been plenty of women before Priscilla, and Jonathan was certain there would be women after. Each one was special to him in her own way, whether he saw her for several months or only knew her over the course of a night, but he never had any intention of marrying a single one. He supposed he had always meant to settle down and start a family someday, but someday kept getting further and further into the future, and he was starting to think that eternal bachelorhood suited him.

But now there was a child. A living, breathing child who existed because of Jonathan. The very idea terrified him.

"I'm, uh, terribly sorry," he added, with an uneasy smile at Priscilla. "I certainly didn't mean to get you into any sort of trouble. Dreadful bad luck on my part."

"I'm not angry, Jonathan," said Priscilla. "And I'm not here to make you feel guilty."

"Well. That's good to know."

"I just couldn't live with myself if I never told you about Jack. I wanted to tell you ages ago, but I didn't know I was having a baby until after you left Cairo."

Jonathan dared a look at his sister. Evelyn still appeared stunned, listening to the conversation with her shock written clearly upon her face, and Jonathan knew his single mistake with Priscilla made all of his other misdeeds look miniscule in comparison. This was far more serious than the time he got into debt and they had to dismiss the housekeeper. Even more serious than the time he got sick in someone's parlor, gambled away a museum artifact, and sang "God Save the Queen" at the top of his lungs, all in a single night. Those nefarious deeds were quite fuzzy in Jonathan's mind, though he did recall a series of splitting migraines, an irate letter from Lord Something-or-Other about an artifact he donated, and some pompous colonel's wife complaining about his vocal abilities.

It was hard to believe, but this was even more serious than the time he got caught making love to a woman in a large, empty sarcophagus in the Museum of Antiquities. He didn't think _anything_ could be more serious than that.

Yet he couldn't help but look imploringly at Evelyn, hoping she would understand that he made a mistake and would fix it if he could. He hoped she would understand that he needed her on his side.

He spied the photograph of the baby, which lay on the floor after Evelyn dropped it, and he snatched it up for another look. He wanted to see himself in that tiny face in the picture, but all he saw was a typical baby sitting on his mother's lap, blissfully unaware that he had a father out there somewhere who had never met him.

"Little Jack is mine, then?" said Jonathan, needing to hear the words again. He needed to believe that he wasn't drunk or dreaming.

"Yes," said Priscilla.

"No doubt at all?"

"Not a single doubt. He's yours, Jonathan."

"I... I'd like to take another look as well," Evelyn spoke up, motioning towards the photograph. She took the picture from Jonathan's hand and stared at the black-and-white image, studying the little boy who sat so innocently. "Oh, Jonathan. I can hardly believe it."

"Neither can I," said Jonathan. "But you heard Priscilla."

"Yes." Evelyn let out a weary sigh. "I really should excuse myself." She gave the picture back to Jonathan and found the book she had brought with her, her eyes flitting anxiously from Jonathan to Priscilla. "It looks as if you two have a lot of catching up to do."

"Wait just a minute, Evy," Jonathan began, but Evelyn wouldn't listen.

"I'll have a word with you later," she said, giving him one last, stern look that told Jonathan a scolding was in his near future. She clutched her book to her chest and retreated from the parlor, leaving Jonathan alone with Priscilla.

Priscilla remained on the sofa, her face a quiet mask as she watched Evelyn's sensible gray skirt disappear around the corner.

"My sister, by the way," Jonathan told her, searching desperately for something to say now that they were alone once more. "I've mentioned my sister Evy, haven't I?"

"Yes," said Priscilla. "You have."

"Good, good. Didn't want you to get the, er... wrong idea. No ball and chain, I can assure you of that."

Priscilla still didn't crack a smile. She was the same woman he remembered from a year ago—brown-eyed, light-haired, fond of bracelets like the bangle she wore on her wrist—but the Priscilla he remembered used to laugh at his jokes and smile in the most lovely way for no reason at all.

The Priscilla he remembered didn't have a dead husband and a bastard child.

"I'm afraid I should leave as well," said Priscilla.

"Whatever for?" asked Jonathan.

"I've made a terrible nuisance of myself. I should have called you on the telephone first, or... or written a letter instead."

"Nonsense, Priscilla. Don't let Evy startle you off. She's dreadfully proper, you know. Born that way, unfortunately, and there's simply no curing her."

A smile finally blossomed across Priscilla's face for just a moment, until she realized what she was doing and wiped it away. Still, Jonathan saw that short-lived smile and wanted to bring back the woman he once knew; the woman who captured his notice at a party in one of Cairo's fancier hotels—he couldn't recall which one—and amused him so delightfully for days afterward. He wanted her to stay, if only to help him make sense of the surprise she dropped into his lap.

He poured himself a little more cognac, still trying to grasp the fact that fatherhood had come upon him much sooner than he expected, and resumed his seat on the sofa. He sat so close to Priscilla, and yet she felt so far away.

"Here," he said, realizing he still held the photograph in his hand. "I suppose you'd like to have it back."

"Thank you," Priscilla murmured. She accepted the photograph and carefully stuck it back in her handbag.

"I suppose he, er... takes after you in looks. The baby, I mean."

She looked at him nervously, her eyes wide and lovelier than ever. "Would you like to see him sometime?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

"I'd love for you to come and see him. I'm still at the same address."

Jonathan struggled to remember her house and thought he recalled a two-story home with a pair of stone lions standing at the gate. She brought him around for a visit one time and they spent an hour holed up in the library, though neither of them touched a single book. He remembered _that_ particular detail quite well.

"You're back at the old home fort, eh?" he said.

"I never left, actually," said Priscilla. "Bernard—that was my husband—agreed that I should stay with my grandfather."

"Is the old captain still alive?"

"Oh, yes. More alive than ever before, if you can believe it."

"Good for the old fellow," said Jonathan.

"Yes." She looked down at her lap and seemed to remember the glass of cognac clutched in her hand. She knocked it back in a few quick swallows and gave Jonathan another small, fleeting smile; a smile that came from sadness and regret and dreary black dresses. "I really should leave now. Your sister..."

"Is probably in her room having a heart attack as we speak," said Jonathan.

"Well I don't want to keep you from her. I imagine she wants to speak to you privately."

"About little Jack..." said Jonathan. "Is there anything... anything you want me to do?"

"I don't need money, if that's what you're asking. I only want you to see him just once, Jonathan. Promise me you'll come see him soon, won't you?"

He still felt bewildered. He still had so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he needed to know, but she seemed eager to get away from him now that she had told the truth about her son. He didn't blame her in the slightest. He was very fond of her a year ago and he liked to think she was fond of him as well, but time had built a wall between them and the spark that brought them together was gone. Perhaps they could never rekindle it.

"I'm afraid the poor little chap won't like me," said Jonathan.

"He's three months old," said Priscilla. "He likes everyone."

"Well. If you say so."

"Please, Jonathan," she said. "You're his father. The least you can do is visit him."

He couldn't refuse her when she looked so sad and so alone, sitting there on his sofa wearing her dead husband's ring. "All right, then," said Jonathan.

The look of gratitude on her face was nearly enough to undo him, and he was tempted to grab a bottle from the liquor cabinet and pour the whole thing down his throat. He showed Priscilla to the door, murmuring polite nonsense about how lovely it was to chat with her and how he couldn't wait to see her house and her grandfather and her dear little boy, and when she was gone he collapsed into the nearest chair.

A father.

He was a _father_. Dear God, how did he end up in such a mess?


End file.
